


Touch Starved

by libradusk



Category: Star Wars: Rebels, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, But with a happy ending, Character Study, Found Family, Heavy Petting, Hurt/Comfort, If You Squint - Freeform, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Reader-Insert, Touch-Starved, Wolffe's chapter got a little spicy, and mistreatment, and some grinding, everyone just needs a hug really, for a treat, good ol galactic stick and poke, kix gets all the kisses he deserves, mention of injury, multiple character shorts, post Umbra fallout
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:27:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24630034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/libradusk/pseuds/libradusk
Summary: Beautiful, burning, terrifying,exhilaratingThe touch of another is sometimes all it takes to weave an entire web of emotions.
Relationships: Ahsoka Tano/Reader, CC-3636 | Wolffe/Reader, CT-6116 | Kix/Reader, CT-7567 | Rex/Reader, Savage Opress/Reader
Comments: 10
Kudos: 162





	1. Ahsoka Tano

Chance, that's what it had all boiled down to at the end of it all, how you had survived the worst day of your short life - the worst day of the _war_.

If you had been with anyone else at the time, you would have been dead, cut down just like your master and the thousands of other Jedi who had all met their fate that horrific day. You had known it at the time through your stolen adolescence, and you certainly knew it now as a fugitive - the only birthright you had ever known now sentenced you for execution, the Empire’s mark for death forever branded on your very soul.

When you had stepped onto that Star Destroyer bridge alongside Ahsoka and Captain Rex, you could never have predicted that the rapid flash of hyperspace would soon double as a blurred countdown to your final moments as a Jedi.

Your assassination had been pre-written in blaster-fire and blood.

At the time you had been happy - drained in every way possible following the Siege of Mandalore, but undeniably overjoyed at being reunited with Ahsoka once more. You had even noted - despite your conscience deeming the thought ludicrously _selfish for a Jedi_ \- that you dared to feel whole again, now that your closest confidant and treasured ally had returned to fight at your side - to fight alongside _all_ of you to finish the war for good.

If only you had listened to Maul’s final, _desperate_ warning to you all.

From the moment that first gunshot had grazed your neck, everything else stumbled into slow motion behind it.

The burn that seared and cauterised across your flesh was incomparable to the pain of realising that the only world you had ever known now crumbled around you, that the same soldiers you had battled alongside - laughed, cried and mourned beside, were now either dead or trying to kill _you too._

Your own, personal tragedy had unfurled its merciless bindings around you and cut you to pieces in the process.

Bile, adrenaline and unadulterated **fear** curled over each other for the entire time it took you to escape, threatening to overwhelm every one of your senses as you navigated the dungeon of corridors and airfields. Recalling the events even now caused your lungs to constrict and shrivel in your chest the exact way they had back then - there was no mercy spared for whether you were awake or sleeping, your memories remained tarnished all the same.

Everything finally came to a screeching stop the moment you stumbled from that stolen bomber and your knees collided with solid ground. Despite your freedom, you had felt anything but relief at the feeling of snow blanketing your blistered knees.

You could still smell the smoking remains of the Star Destroyer ship and the clones that had perished alongside it long after you had finished burying their bodies.

Only after you had placed down the last helmet and turned to face the haunting expression on Ahsoka’s face had your body finally allowed you to cry, your soul wrecked with confusion and _grief_ that neither of you could truly answer. 

She had held you then, despite your bloodied hands staining her cowl and the fact you _knew_ she was just as broken as you were - she remained steadfast and let you crash against her, your only remaining warmth left across the whole galaxy.

Her own tears had burned hot with fury as they dripped onto your frost-bitten skin when she finally shattered alongside you. 

She was torn from you too soon after that.

Or rather the Empire tore **you** from _her._

Your throat had practically bled as their forces had ripped you away, ravaged raw with screams of protest and pleas for her to _run_ , to continue to survive through it all.

The look drowning in those misty-blue eyes still tormented your dreams long after rebel forces had come to your rescue, as did the way she had grasped helplessly towards you as Rex had muffled her cries and dragged her out of view - to safety.

You had made peace then, that somewhere out amongst the stars, Ahsoka was still safe - still alive, even if she couldn’t be by your side anymore.

The thought had eased the hollowness in your heart, if only by the most minuscule amount.

That fateful night relit the fire in your stomach - despite the terror and loss of the only two people you had left in the world it brought alongside it. You stopped running, determined now more than ever to retake the peace that was stolen from you - from Ahsoka and Rex and everyone else who’s lives had been dictated and swallowed by the horrors of blood lust and power born from _war._

You had vowed to honour that reignited mission when you had settled down to sleep amidst the threadbare sanctuary of the rebel base that night - and every night that followed thereafter.

_You cannot break me further, I have nothing left for you to take from me._

_**I will stop you from forcing others to suffer as I have.** _

That skeleton of a mantra continued to guide your every action, to dictate your _very survival_ for years, until at last it guided you to the crew of the _Ghost_ and settled you amongst its rag-tag family of Rebels.

You never envisioned yourself ever reuniting with Ahsoka in your remaining lifetime - had not even dared _dream_ of it. Instead you had always placated yourself with a fantasy wherein she was alive and well hidden in a remote pocket of the galaxy - untouchable and sparkling and _happy._

In retrospect you should have known better than to pacify yourself with the lie that the ex-Jedi would ever be the type to ever cower away while others suffered in her stead. Your morals - your spirits - would also entwine you together. The two of you shared a destination that had been forever stitched across the stars, regardless of the path you each walked to reach it.

Jedi or not, the stars could only keep you apart for so long - no matter how excruciating the wait, the means or the time between.

Yet the moment she stood before you once more, older and taller and _exhausted_ , but still as warm and beautiful a soul as _you always knew her to be,_ you couldn’t help but crumble.

And so did she.

For a second the two of you reverted to the ghosts of those tear-stomped teenagers once more, torn apart and furious when you had already lost _everything_ but each other, jaded and scarred by events far beyond your control.

But beneath the tears and anger and **pain** there was the Ahsoka you knew, the same Ahsoka that had offered you a chance to live - to keep on fighting despite the hell you had both been dragged through day after day.

The Togruta had all but _melted_ into your embrace then, choking back relief that quivered over her shoulders as wide eyes and tentative hands had swarmed over your face, desperate to check that you were truly there, _truly alive._

You wondered, if your tears seared against her skin with the same intensity that buzzed across your own as her fingers cradled your jaw - every nerve threaded tightly with a prickling intensity as your soul restitched itself with each touch of Ahsoka’s skin against your own.

It bordered on overwhelming in the most magical way.

For at long last, after so much sacrifice you had been blessed with the most wonderful chance reunion - no, _miracle_ of them all.


	2. Savage Opress

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter includes mention of bodily harm and tattoos/needles, just a heads up

He never smiled.

The thought struck you one evening as you’d stared over your drink in the crowded, backwater cantina. It had become a regular haunt for you and the Zabrak brothers, ever since you had become entwined in their navigation of the galaxy’s underworld. He had sat unflinchingly stiff across from you, saffron eyes forever trained over Maul’s shoulder even as he sipped his own ale, tense and poised to snap the moment an unruly patron stumbled too close to where you all had poured over the cracked screen of a stolen data pad.

Savage Opress never showed much emotion in general really, remaining stone faced and apathetic towards most anything that didn’t strike the furnace of his temper. Since your first meeting he had always preferred to step backwards and allow his more _talkative_ younger brother handle diplomacy, and even weeks later into your working relationship he had remained politely aloof at best and irritated at worst. He just seemed… _empty_ , intelligent yet gullible and loyal to his brother to a **fault** at the best of times, but still so _lost_ beneath the glares and the wall of muscle and armour.

You were just their _accomplice_ by association _,_ their guide to navigating the underbelly of the black market - not there to ask questions beyond what taste of freedom they could possibly offer you when all was said and done - how they could liberate you from the rotten depths of it all. Really, you had no reason to take such an interest in the taller brother, but there was something about him that _sparked_ something within you, that constantly wrestled against your better judgement.

Whether it was pity, empathy, morbid fascination or something even _deeper,_ you didn’t truly know - nor were you initially prepared to dig through the darker complications of your inner voice to do so.

Whatever it was, you were drawn to him further than what your line of duty - _if you could really ever call it that_ \- commanded you to be.

Somehow, over time and slotted snugly between covert operations and what little downtime he allowed himself - your gentle persistence seemed to work, Savage cracked just enough for you to scrutinise beyond the harsh line of his sneer. What you discovered proved to be more troubling than you had envisioned possible.

Savage Opress was a fragile soul - hollow and uncanny in the way he wore skin that did not quite fit him - that did not fit with who he was beneath it, who he _used to be._ You knew he had endured hardship - he sported the same scars of abuse you had seen countless times over plastering the slaves in the marketplace, and that branded the souls of tortured assassins as they drowned their demons in cheap ale and blood money. The trauma hid deeper than the ink that patterned his flesh, suffocated with fluctuating success behind his dedication to his kin, and the desire to reclaim power that had been stolen from them both.

Yet he still flinched at any touch of your skin against his own when you sparred, recoiling as if you had stabbed him with his own blade when you thoughtlessly placed a friendly hand against his forearm in the busy cantina. It broke your heart to think that you had contributed to the pain festering within him, the shame boiling your blood each time you witnessed that all-too-familiar flicker of panic dance across his eyes for a moment before it was bitten back behind a surly frown once more.

The underworld constantly reminded you that it was birthed through suffering - it only flourished through the agony of those that convulsed through its veins.

The alleyway fumes began to strangle you ever more tightly after that.

You thought you were dreaming the night he finally touched you. He had hauled you to your feet following your training session with such force, that for a horrible second you thought he was preparing to break you over his knee with the action. Savage’s fist had dwarfed your own as he had locked it around your wrist, and despite the frantic motion that had threatened to dislodge your shoulder from its socket, his actual hold on you had been uncharacteristically delicate. He’d seemed as shocked as you then, and while the memory pulled a shy smile from you now, at the time you had been too flabbergasted by the gesture to voice anything outside of wide-eyed disbelief as you stared up at the tall Zabrak.

When he had returned the flustered smile that blossomed across your heated face with a small twitch of his own lips, you had truly been convinced it was all some romanticised fabrication resulting from hitting your head after he had swept your feet from under you.

But he began to smile at you a lot more after that - it was always a little unsure, shy even, but it suited him all the same - like it should always have felt at home on his face.

The ghost of it played at the corner of his lips now, the light of the campfire softening the harsh lines of his face further as you sat together just outside his ship. Maul had long retired for the night, leaving just the two of you to watch as the embers flickered and grappled amidst the blackened wood. Despite the perceived serenity of the scene, you were nervous. You had long since noticed that the tattoos decorating his right forearm, though usually hidden beneath his armour, appeared faded and mottled with scar tissue. The extent of the damage was particularly glaring now, as he rested beside you in a short sleeved tunic that highlighted the swell of his arms. Even in the gentle lighting, whatever harm had been inflicted on him by his old _“master”_ had long since twisted the sienna lines into a warped yellow-grey mess across the surface of the limb. 

Scars were a commonplace sight across the underworld - some even viewing them as a mark of experience amongst the darker professions that thrived here - yet there was something about seeing them marred across the skin of someone you had grown to care for with increasing intensity that turned your stomach with anger. 

You had taken a private trip to the marketplace not long after you had first caught sight of them, vowing to yourself, as you bartered your way to a rudimentary tattoo kit, that if you were ever to meet the person that had defiled him you would gut them yourself.

Now the little bag of equipment dug stubbornly through your pocket and into your thigh as you shifted in place, mulling over how best to voice your suggestion to the Zabrak. Would he be offended? Enraged? Would he even be willing to have your hands on him for as long as it took for you to retouch his tattoos? The shadows surrounding you bloated with your anxiety, swelling and looming ever more menacingly with each twitch of your knee.

**“Speak.”**

Savage’s stern bellow cut through the charged silence, commanding your attention and silencing the buzz of your thoughts in one fell moment.

Your eyes find his as they stare down at you, their supernatural glow glinting beneath his dark lids.

_Like melted starfall_ , a pretty Theelin cantina-owner had once described them as such. Though she had obviously been attempting to butter the brothers up to spend more at her bar, the comment had stuck with you to this day.

Suddenly you felt incredibly tiny in their spotlight.

Spots of light stain your vision as you raise your head, and you realise that your gaze must have previously fixated on the glare of the fire pit for longer than you thought. Hurried fingers reach to rub at your face in an aim to refocus your vision. Savage’s face rests in an expression which is at once soft but unreadable as you blink up at him.

It's one he wears often these days, when it's just the two of you.

“You only make that face when you have something you wish to ask, so ask it.”

His speech is as straightforward as ever, but the Nightbrother’s tone is softer now, voice purposefully smooth and steady as he folds his hands in his lap and leans to sit back up straight. You can't help but curse inwardly at how quickly he has become able to read you, noting that your poker face must be losing its touch.

You allow a sigh of defeat to pass between you before fishing the kit out of the confines of your cloak pocket, your idea and reasoning spilling out along with it.

Savage’s face remains unmoving for your entire garbled confession and you contemplate hauling yourself to the nearest cantina to drink away the prickling embarrassment currently spreading across your body. Maybe a bartender will take pity on you and wax poetic about _your own features_ just to numb the humiliation of it all.

The heavy weight suddenly dropped across your lap halts you before you have a chance to spring to your haunches. You jump in your seat, heart instantly racing with an all too familiar surge of adrenaline sharpened from years of simply _breathing the air_ in the epicentre of danger. Savage releases a breathy chuckle at your reaction, but the rigidity of the arm splayed out across your thighs doesn't go unnoticed by you, its fingers flexing around the air in clear apprehension. The sight tugs at your heart uncomfortably and manifests itself in a sigh even as the brief panic fades.

“You don’t need to feel obliged, Savage - I can promise you now that it’ll be no masterpiece.”

The words are hollow and you both know it, but there is truth behind it nonetheless - an invitation to back away if it's too overwhelming a suggestion for him to handle. His eyes search yours again and this time your gaze remains steadfast. You note then, how the campfire paints across his skin in a sunset spectrum and suddenly the heat of his arm against you flares to a _burn._ His fingers continue to ripple over each other almost rhythmically for a moment as his eyes gloss over in thought, it’s a habit of his that became apparent to you early into your partnership - one that had served as a rare glimpse into his inner anxiety back when he’d remained otherwise unreadable. The muscles across his neck and upper body are pulled tight despite the lax position he's settled himself in, and a sizeable part of you now fights the urge to gingerly push him away and coax him to return to his quarters for the night.

His painted lips part to interrupt you once more, the glint of his teeth catching the thought before it could be tempted to coerce you into running once more.

“...Tattoos are important between Nightbrothers,” his voice rumbles like thunder, it stirs across your ribs even as he breaks your gaze to whisper into the embers of the fire pit, “-having another apply them for you is the ultimate sign of trust in our culture.”

The confession winds itself around your heart and thickens the words in your throat until all you can do is wordlessly reach for the pouch of tools and ink between you both.

Savage doesn’t so much as blink when the needle pierces across his flesh, but his complacency does little to prevent your own face from twisting to a cringe each time you cut into a particularly nasty patch of scarring. He has never properly spoken to you of his kin, aside from Maul that is. You had learnt early into meeting them both that raising the topic of family only served to darken the older Zabrak’s brooding, and you had never dared to pry further after that. Yet as you trace the hooked lines cascading down his arm, you can’t help but wonder how many times he has sat through this treatment before - no doubt by hands who’s skill extends beyond merely giving the odd stick-and-poke to an acquaintance within the brotherhood circuit.

The bare expanse of his skin is warm under your hands, apparent even through the barrier of medical gloves sheathing your fingers. It's _different_ to Maul’s however, who’s penchant for going shirtless had often resulted in you brushing up against his heated flesh in the cramped conditions of the bars and marketplaces you visited. You knew Zabraks ran a higher temperature than most other beings, that much was common knowledge - but Savage’s skin was _boiling_ even in comparison to that. However you couldn't ignore that it also left you feeling unnaturally cold each time you pulled away to refill the needle, as if there was something other than _just_ blood stirring beneath its surface. You had been ignorant to how strange the sensation was before, but now as he sat at your mercy there was no escaping it for either of you.

Still, you fought back the shivers that threatened your hand and finished the job to completion, fuelled by affection than ran much deeper than any surface level discomfort ever could.

The campfire had shrunk to a simmer by the time you finally set down the needle. Savage remained motionless even as you let out a satisfied sigh, golden eyes glowing warmly in the moonlight. They retain their hold on your figure even as he takes a moment to flex his freshly inked arm. It requires a great deal of self-restraint to hold back your own from wandering over the broad expanse of his bicep as he rolls out the fatigue rusted across his joints.

“Wait-” your voice is barely above a hurried whisper, yet it seems to echo through the midnight air with a force that makes you both startle - you realise then that neither of you have really spoken the entire time it's taken to ink his arm.

“I need to disinfect and bandage it,” you hold up the small bottle of rubbing alcohol to punctuate your concern, pairing it with what you hope comes off as a casual smile.

_Why did your mouth feel like it was stuffed with cotton?_ The task was done, yet your throat felt so tight it almost hurt to swallow.

“Besides, can’t have you ruining my hard work by stuffing them straight back into your armour straight away, can I?”

Your words, though much less polished than you would have liked them to be, seem to ease the Nightbrother all the same. Savage lets out a grunt of agreement and settles closer to you this time. Another shudder creeps down your spine as his shoulder brushes against your own, the heat continuing to ripple from his body despite the chill of the night having long since settled around you.

Gently, you take hold of his wrist and stretch out the expanse of his forearm across your knees once more. You can feel the muscles contract under your firm touch, as well as the subtle intake of air that grazes past your ear as Savage leans over beside you.

He jolts violently the moment you drag the disinfectant-soaked rag across his flesh, and for a moment you’re gripped with the fear you’ve hurt him, flinching away and almost knocking the bottle over with your foot in the process. There's a beat before he apologises in a voice far too small for a being of his statue. The surprise in your gut gives way to the electric flutter of _butterflies_ as you become all too aware of the warmth of his palm clutching at your knee.

He nods for you to continue as you glance upwards to his face once more. If he can see the flush that has settled across your cheeks in darkness, he doesn't react to it.

His own eyes are preoccupied with following the path of your knuckles as you gently swipe the cloth in smooth motions across the raised patterns on his skin.

“...There.” The comment is mostly spoken to yourself rather than Savage as you wind the dressing around his forearm, but he thanks you all the same in that smooth voice of his.

The shadows have blanketed further now, yet even in the dying light, they no longer seem threatening.

You hold his arm to your face for a while longer. Your eyes are beginning to sting in the low lighting now, but you’re certain that despite your tiredness you could easily trace each and every line on his arm from memory across the bandage concealing them.

Perhaps it's the sleep deprivation that provokes you to edge forward between your fingers and place a chaste kiss against the exposed marigold skin of his wrist.

At least that's what you settle to tell yourself as you pull back, the sharp sting of rubbing-alcohol clinging to your lips.

_Perhaps it's just because he looks so wistful._

_Perhaps it's just because you’ve **wanted** to do it for a while now._

His face wears a new expression then - not a smile, but one you think you might like _even a bit_ more. It's slack-jawed and shy _,_ but also paints his face in thinly veiled peachy _delight_ that even seems to brighten the sickly yellow-green bruising beneath his tired eyes.

You make a note to tip the stall owner the next time you pass through the market.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading so far! I wanna give Savage a big hug he deserves it
> 
> I know this likely goes without saying but please don't tattoo your friends and/or love interests without conducting research on how to do it safely


	3. Captain Rex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note this chapter contains mention of injury and death and themes of wartime PTSD

He’s not sure how long he’s been staring at the wall for now.

Amidst the heaviness clinging to his bones, he’s half aware that at least half an hour has passed by at this point, between him all but stumbling into his private quarters and finishing up slumped forward and crumpled on the untouched bed.

There's something calming about staring into the vastness of plain durasteel. It's almost featureless aside from the grey sheen that coats over it. There are no harsh lines to writhe against the room’s shadows, no bright flashes of colour for him to squint against without the safety of his helmet.

The whole space is solid, clean - coldly familiar despite the room remaining almost untouched. The irony of it serving as compensation for his Captain’s rank wasn't lost on him, considering said position’s duties meant he was scarcely granted the leave to actually _use_ it. Home comforts hardly existed for Clones, but compared to the trenches of Umbra the quarters might as well be _paradise_.

Captain Rex is grateful that the panelling isn't reflective, because he's positive he would fail to recognise the man staring back at him if it were so. 

He looks like shit. General Skywalker had practically told him so word for word when the surviving strain of the 501st had returned back to base mere hours before. Any other General may have taken offence to the dishevelled appearance unmasked behind the grime-splattered surface of his Captain’s helmet. Dark roots have sprouted amongst his overgrown buzz cut, and there's grime and stubble smeared across his face and neck that refuses to wash completely away. Rex is confident that the blood rusted amidst it wont leave until he hacks the whole thing off. It reaches crumbling fingers to scratch and irritate down his chest and back even now in the sterile air of the room. It feels foreign and invasive - he's not even sure if all of it is his own.

A shudder rattles across his bones before he can strangle it back, and his head drops to his hands, breath expelling between tanned fingers and winding down his wrists to bind them in place.

The floor greets his eyes with the same, featureless metallic surface, disturbed only by his shadow as it steps across it. It’s smoky and hunched in the faint light offered by his bedside lamp. The longer he stares at it, the deeper it seems to pool. His gaze climbs slowly up the wall once more, hoisting itself up by his neck before the shadow threatens to drag the rest of him down into it.

Anakin had relented the moment he had looked into Rex’s eyes and seen the same hollowness that scraped across the cheeks of his surviving men. The Captain’s heart had sunk further towards his stomach the moment realisation had twisted across Skywalker’s features. The Jedi had silently noted the missing faces across their ranks and the sight of an almost catatonic Dogma restrained in his binders. Rex had hardly even been able to conjure the energy to raise his arm in salute, and now he was finally alone his limbs felt heavier than ever, weighted down with bitter remorse and a pain that sunk deeper than just his bones.

Even with the guilt and fatigue clamouring over him, Rex knew that the contrasting fire of fury and remorse that blazed across Skywalker's eyes would stay with him forever.

The rage he had emanated felt like a precursor to death. A prologue, perhaps.

Rex knew within him that right now he should be feeling the same way, but he had no energy left to sacrifice, even breathing felt the most difficult it had ever been. It was as though every one of his ribs were splintered and mangled around his lungs, smothering his heart until he could feel each pound of it screaming in his ears.

Why was it so loud? Why did his skin feel like there was something crawling beneath it?

His programming must be faulty, because this battle had truly knocked the wind from his sails, and that is something that should _never_ happen to a trooper. His use-by-date must be fast approaching, it's the only justification he can clamber to reach, though the thought provides little peace for him to cling to.

No. There was no exact moment to pinpoint where it had all changed for Rex. This descent into agony had come slowly, like sinking into quicksand. This was just the breaking point for a build up that had been clawing away at little parts of him for a while now. He feels pathetic, shame cutting through the numbness and threatening to cleave his fingernails through his palms.

Fives had even been kind enough to fill out Rex’s reports for him - the Captain wasn’t even sure that decision was part of the correct protocol, but he couldn’t bring himself to complain, even if he wanted to. Even so, it served as another stab to his conscience.The ARC Trooper had no doubt suffered as much as Rex himself after experiencing what they had all gone through, and yet Fives had felt compelled to stand in for his own _Captain’s_ incompetence... Perhaps Rex truly was too battle-damaged to function properly for the remainder of the war, he hadn’t even been able to put down Krell himself. 

...No. He had to keep going, he owed his men as much - both to those who perished in the darkness of Umbra and those who had found the strength to keep on living.

His death needed to _mean_ something - to push them further towards victory for the Republic. He had to fight off the urge to curl into the durasteel and disappear for at least another night.

Good soldiers follow orders, after all - that much was still ingrained within him.

His hands curl into fists then and he forces himself to look at them. They’re clammy and gloveless, coated with smatterings of grime and smear from where he's rubbed at his face and neck. Rex notes then that he hasn't seen them bare in some time, having resolved to sleep in his full blacks and as much armour as possible for the entire Umbra campaign. The tanned expanse of his skin looks alien, the cold plastoid plating of his uniform felt more familiar at this point, and the thought frightened him more than it probably should for a Clone Trooper - Captain or otherwise. He notes then, that he hadn’t even managed to completely strip himself of armour before slumping onto the bed. How ironic that his own flesh felt more out of place on his body than hard, synthetic material. 

What pieces he had managed to tear away were stacked halfheartedly in the corner. His helmet stares back at him across the room, its visor appearing endlessly dark even with the light offered to it. It sits atop the rest of the display, throned ritualistically as it always had been. Once Rex had stared at it with pride each night as he attempted to drift off to sleep, yet now it sat crooked and war-tattered with filth. Looking at it felt like staring into a shattered mirror. Rex knew he ought to repaint it, along with the rest of his gear, yet that thought was quashed as quickly as it appeared. To paint over the blood of his brothers’ felt like a cheap way of blanketing their deaths, their own sacrifice to the war.

They deserved to be mourned, to be remembered. If Rex didn’t, then there were few others that would.

Nothing would be the same again, and it _shouldn't._ That thought would keep him going, he would ensure it would.

But in that moment, as he stared at the sickly red that stained across the blue and white plating, the echo of blaster fire tore open his memories and dragged the screams of his dead brothers behind it.

The durasteel walls begin to spin.

….

..

.

.

“...Rex?”

The voice that edges through the doorway is purposefully soft, barely above a whisper in fact - yet it still triggers him to flinch in response. His throat feels like it's on fire now and he has to fight back the urge to claw at where his pulse drowns in bile. The bodysuit clinging to his skin now feels much too tight, and he resorts to tear open the buttoned collar as he twists in the direction of the open doorway, shame already sinking its clutch into his veins.

It’s you, if you had knocked before opening the door it had never registered to him.

Had he even remembered to lock it in the first place? At that moment he couldn't remember anything aside from the tragedy he had barely just scraped through. The blastdoor seals itself shut as quickly as it opened and the hiss it exhumes drags him back to the present. You're cloaked in the same dim lighting as he is now, it spreads your shadow and melts it across the floor towards where he sits, half facing you and frozen in contemplation. Even with the low light, he doesn’t miss the way your face falls once his sunken eyes drag over to you. Your expression frightens him more than Anakin’s ever could, because he can't help but feel directly responsible for the immense sadness glassing over your eyes in that moment.

Rex fights the instinct to duck his gaze in disgrace. You've never seen him in this state, hell he doesn't recall _ever_ being as big a mess as this before. The Captain had always kept his weaknesses guarded - from his men and his enemies alike - from _you_ \- even when you had allowed him to stumble into your own.

This feels humiliating, but he also doesn't feel that he deserves to object.

The twisting has traversed to his stomach now and his toes twitch with the urge to run despite the heaviness weighing down each and every part of him.

But he also knows you well enough to be confident you wouldn't let him hide anyway.

You're striding over to him now, your shadow oozing closer and wider with the movement. Within three quick strides you're in front of him and then beside him on the stiff, military grade mattress. It doesn't take long, after all the room is tiny despite being built for a Captain, but now there is truly nowhere left for the Trooper to hide. He wonders then, if the dull bedside lamplight paints him as sickly as he feels. It wraps around you too, brighter and more clearly than when you had leaned against the doorway. Up this close he can see the pity pulling at your frown, as he had expected it to, but nestled alongside it is something softer. It's frighteningly warm and only spreads wider as you sigh and wrap your arms around him with no other hesitation. He can't help but crumble into the safety you extend to him, leaning in and allowing the glow to envelop him completely. In those precious seconds you had quickly become the only solace he had left in the world, one that was safe and warm and cared about him.

By design, Rex was not a selfish man, but just for a moment he allowed himself to fall to pieces for the first time and sink into the fantasy that there was no war, no death, no regulations - just two people that cared for each other above all else in the world.

Yeah, just a moment wouldn't hurt.

He's sure you're uncomfortable, pressed up against a half-armoured body that's stiff with anxiety, but you’re relentless as you drape him in delicate empathy and affection. He's not sure if it's your tears or his own wetting the plains of his cheeks, but it doesn't matter - he feels like he's drowning all the same as you begin to slowly rock the two of you back and forth.

The touch you give him is so different to all he's known for the past weeks. Your arms and hands are not dictated with adrenaline soaked desperation, and there are no exposed bones, no bloody, mangled hands or rattling last words to be heard, there is just you.

In that moment, you are the softest thing he's ever known and he clings to you like a lifeline. You continue to hold him like he could break and shatter in your arms, and he _does_ , shoving away instinct and indoctrination to bury his scruffy face in your shoulder and sob.

He would survive, he had always vowed to come back and continue fighting no matter what else was thrown his way.

But for now he would lay down his armoured soul and let it grieve alongside you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to give every Clone a huge hug


	4. Commander Wolffe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You hadn't meant to touch his thigh, honest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warning for mentions of alcohol and lots of heavy petting + suggestive themes.

You’re beginning to regret your decision as soon as your foot crosses the threshold. 79’s was _packed_ tonight, even more so than usual, and the one empty booth you and the Wolfpack had managed to find and cram into was tiny. You had barely managed to yell your order out to Sinker before both of you had your words stolen, cut off by the screaming bassline of another high-energy dance song. Whatever the indistinct chart-topper was, it was certainly well received by the bar’s inhabitants, as you barely had time to blink before Sinker was swallowed up into a crowd of whooping clones and other civilians. _Ah yes,_ part of the main speaker system was positioned directly behind where you all sat, that certainly explained why no one had claimed your seat before Comet had all but thrown himself into it from across the dance floor. Great, hello approaching hangover _and_ tinnitus.

At least Boost’s awful jokes still managed to carry over the noise, perhaps with some hope, they could distract you from reflecting on how much of Wolffe’s sarcasm had rubbed off on you until your alcohol arrived.

It had been thanks to his silver-haired brother that you had even been persuaded, or rather _worn down_ , into joining the group tonight. The irony of Sinker being chiefly responsible for dragging you here, yet also being the first to peace out on drink duty wasn’t lost on you. You should have ordered something incredibly specific and difficult to remember, just to see if he could get it right and keep him from getting distracted.

Ok, maybe that would have been a bit too mean.

You cringe a little at the way the worn leather cushion beneath you feels almost sticky to the touch, hoping to the love of _Maker_ that it was just the crowded atmosphere making it seem so clammy against your palms. It didn't help that Commander Wolffe wasted no time in sliding in effortlessly next to you, effectively caging you between the connecting wall and the heat of his body.

Well, now you certainly couldn't just blame the club’s atmosphere for your sweaty palms.

It's a bit of a squeeze to fit three fully-armoured men and yourself into the confined space. In the back of your mind, you can't help but wonder how Boost, Comet _and_ Sinker all plan on cramming into one side of the worn couch when the latter returns. The way that Wolffe has already looped his arm dominantly over the top of your shared headrest indicates **quite clearly** that he is not prepared to share the space anymore than he already is, and you certainly don’t mind getting the Commander all to yourself either, even if its under circumstances that aren’t exactly optimal to your ever-growing yearning. You try to further hone in on the glint of Boost’s grin to distract the growing unrest bubbling low in your stomach, praying that Sinker hurries back quickly with your drink, you were going to need it.

It really does feel like your prayers have been answered when a familiar flash of silver finally slips back through the dancing crowd. Sinker’s smirk is victorious as he successfully hauls the tray of drinks to the tabletop and makes quick work of sliding each of them to their desired recipient. His smile quickly fades however, when he attempts to nudge Boost further down the seat and is instead met with the resistance of the latter’s armoured hip. His finesse all but evaporated, you can only look on and cringe as Sinker is subsequently angled awkwardly towards the floor with a shove from his brother. It sends him barrelling down inelegantly in a flailing mess of limbs that nearly take down several other nearby patrons alongside him, the newly empty drinks tray circling around his crumpled form almost comically.

You can’t help joining in with the erupting laughter that follows as Sinker attempts to heave himself up from the ground without disturbing any more of the glaring dancers around him. Your glass bounces with the force Boost slaps his hand against the table with, and you quickly reach out a hand through your own giggles to stabilise it, already anticipating the headlock that Sinker no doubt plans to capture his brother in. You're so distracted however, that you fail to notice how your free hand has come to rest against Wolffe’s thigh until hard, plastoid plating kisses your fingertips. You both freeze at the contact and his knee knocks against your own leg reflexively, the heat slipping from between his leg plates feels hot and electric as it seeps across your flesh like smoke.

To your side, you hear him exhale a long breath through his nose. The milky-white of his cybernetic eye is trained purposefully straight ahead, but you can tell that his focus is no longer on the squabbling clones across the table. 

_**What now?**_ , you almost speak the words aloud before you catch yourself, lifting your drink with a trembling hand to your lips in a desperate attempt to mask the rising heat prickling across your nerves. Wolffe seems to mirror your thoughts because there's a pause that falls over him then, the only movement he gives being the thoughtful tap of a fingertip against the top of the table. 

You almost choke on your cocktail when the warm, vast surface of his right hand suddenly abandons its post behind the headrest to spread across the top of your own, trapping it atop his thigh before you can think to draw it away. His touch is gentle, light, easy for you to slip out of or shake off - deliberateand _questioning._ Your nerves settle a little at that realisation. 

Your eyes dart back to his profile again then, and you find the cybernetic trained strictly on your face now, searching for an answer to an unspoken question - one that's been drifting between you both and pushed away for a while now.

With an inward breath, you stroke your hand higher in a languid answer. The sharp lines of his jaw tighten in time with his grip around you.

What a happy little accident this was turning out to be. You couldn't even blame the alcohol, considering you weren't even halfway through your first drink. Carefully, you slip your fingertips through the gaps in plating concealing his thighs, gliding them across the heated apex of his inner thigh and stroking them in lazy little circles, as though the movement came thoughtlessly to you. Through the material of his blacks, you can feel his muscles twitch with each scrape of your nails and the reaction emboldens you, nurturing your confidence but still continuing to spike the blood flow in your ears. Your eyes are locked onto him, glittering with challenge in the low lighting as you bat the question to him once more.

_**What now?** _

If the pigment still danced in his right eye, it would be as dark and dangerous as the growl that rumbled from his throat at that moment. You hold your breath and note that the tapping of his free hand has ceased now, as if it anticipates his next move as much as you do. Across the table, the Wolfpack continue to bicker, still none the wiser to the dangerous little dance their Commander is partaking in under the table. Quickly and without warning, the hand that was previously resting atop your own moves to silently strike. It digs itself into the flesh of your thigh and tugs you even closer towards his body. It's a calculated movement on Wolffe’s part, one that is easily disguised to any watchful eyes as a simple adjustment to your posture to something more comfortable, and it's enabled further by your own attempts to keep your expression as inconspicuous as possible despite the surprise widening in your eyes. His grip is firm now, and he takes great care to draw out the pressure of his thumb against your flesh, dragging it across in a burning path before squeezing all five of his digits in tandem. It's possessive, as though he's marking you with his fingers alone. You’re suddenly incredibly grateful for the leather seat supporting your body, because his touch is quickly devouring any strength supporting your muscles.

He's smirking now, all too aware of how he has affected you.

_**Your turn.** _

Damn him.

This game has dragged on for far too long for you to just sit back and let him win.

“Commander Wolffe,” your voice shocks him into a start, as if he wasn’t expecting you to break the charged silence bleeding out between the two of you, “you appear to have a stray hair on your cheek.”

The pretty white lie dances from your lips, it's sticky and wet, dripping with the remnants of your cocktail and something much more playful. Despite his gruff demeanour, Wolffe never wears a hair out of place in his cropped crew-cut, yet he follows along all the same.

He’s twisted to face you completely now and you’re finally granted confirmation of how his good eye has caramelised in colour with the way you’re affecting him. The Commander isn't as ahead of the game as he thinks he is. Satisfaction and excitement bubble within you as you lean closer to him, releasing your touch on his thigh to instead make a private flourish of ghosting curled fingers across the right side of his jaw and cheekbone to wipe away the ‘stray hair’. You have to bite back a chuckle at the sight of his pulse jumping in his neck the moment your skin makes contact with his own. Your unfinished drink stands forgotten now, your grip around its rim abandoned to tuck itself under your own chin and prop your head up in a casual act of defiance. 

Wolffe says nothing as you slowly begin to trace the lines of the scar that forks beneath his right eye, but leans into the touch ever so slightly. You had always wondered what it would feel like beneath your fingers, it shines a delicate pink each time the lights catch over it. His gaze softens then, contrasting with the way his hand grips your thigh even tighter for a moment before releasing and mimicking the movement of your touch with his own. A shiver passes down the arch of your spine at the gentle strokes against your inner thigh, and you almost lose your composure once more.

“...Thank you.” His tone is as formal as it always is, but you’re certain his words aren’t simply aimed at playing along with the little charade you’re putting on for the people around you, his voice is far too soft and heavy amidst the noise blanketing around you. It weaves through the lust clouding your thoughts to tug at your heart. Before you can check yourself, you’re threading your fingers carefully in his dark locks and marvelling at the thickness of it as his stare pulls you ever closer towards him.

Oops. 

Two out of three pairs of eyes burning into your skull remind you that you aren’t alone in the booth. Sinker has raised a groomed eyebrow knowingly, Comet looks downright scandalised and Boost is… thankfully none the wiser as he jabs a finger in his Sergeant's direction, desperate to retrieve his _vod’s_ attention to continue whatever petty argument he had left stranded between them. Your hands fold back down into your lap as you lean backwards into the embrace of the leather, wishing that somehow it would drag you down into its cushioned depths and away from the embarrassment currently cutting through you. The weight of Wolffe’s leg hooked around your own yanks you back to reality before you can fully give into it.

Oddly enough, it's Sinker that's the one to rescue you and Wolffe from the situation.

He slams a gloved fist down onto the tabletop, brown eyes snapping away from your flushed cheeks to flicker between the soldiers crammed into the seat next to him. Comet jumps at the sudden charged atmosphere and rushes to snatch his drink away from Sinker’s loosely clenched fist. Boost’s expression however, sours as both his hands lift in indignation at his brother’s erratic action.

“Why the kriff did you do **that** for Sinker, you great-”

“Shut it. We’re settling this with a drinking competition at the bar side. Comet, you’re coming too, Boost’s as good at cheating as he is at going without a bath, so you’re in charge of judging.”

Before either of them can utter another word of protest, Sinker has them both hauled to their feet and drags them across the dance floor towards where the bar sits, obscured by hordes of inebriated dancers and rowdy clones picking arm-wrestle matches with their squad mates. You have to blink a couple of times to reassure yourself that you’re not dreaming after all, not quite sure how you managed to get out of that situation with the rest of your dignity intact. Owing Sinker for life was nowhere near as daunting as the thought of being teased by Boost for the rest of the war was. Had you have had half your wits about you, you would have thought to slip him a few credits in thanks.

A frustrated sigh to your left grabs your attention before it can drift ever further away. In your peripheral, you catch Wolffe pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers and a flustered chuckle slips past you at the sight.

“Sorry.” Your apology is as rosy as your face, and you fight in vain to keep down your smile as you gaze at him. It coaxes the curve of his lips into one of his own at the sight, mismatched eyes darting across your warm expression. There's another gentle period of silence that falls between you then before he begins to draw circles across the tense muscle of your thigh once more.

“Don’t be.” He pats your leg once before swinging his own out from under the table and rising to stand, unceremoniously yanking you to your feet in one fluid movement. You stumble against him in surprise, grabbing at his chest and shoulders in an attempt to keep upright and not charge headfirst into the pool of people carelled behind you both. A chuckle vibrates across his shoulders and you glare up at him to see him smirking victoriously down at you, one dark eyebrow cocked in challenge. 

_They should have nicknamed him Snake instead of Wolffe,_ you think, _because that was a dirty move._

His fingers slip from your wrist to curl amidst your own, lacing the two of you together and running softly across the bones of your knuckles. This constant contrast between rugged dominance and surprising tenderness was going to be the death of you, it was becoming ever harder to keep up with each action he lavished upon you. Touch alone was steadily becoming no longer enough, your self control was frantically untying itself with each pound of the music in your ears.

You needed to taste him - certain at this point, that you would melt away without the press of his lips against your own. The bob of his throat where the armour failed to hide it signified that his thoughts seemed to mirror your own. One last squeeze of his hand is all it takes for him to begin dragging you both away, past the crowds and curious faces with little better to do, and far away from where the Wolfpack were currently slumped knocking back shots on Republic credit.

79’s seems to stretch a lot wider when you have need coursing through your veins, and at this point the air is clinging to you in such a way that you feel positively dizzy with excitement. Wolffe navigates the crowded space with the deftness of a dancer, weaving quickly through the crowd faster than you can properly register their faces. As you both approach the refreshers, the thought crosses your mind that he must be planning to whisk you away in there to continue your tryst, but Wolffe keeps on moving. Eventually you stumble out the back of the building, and the sensation of stepping out into the clear night air is reminiscent of emerging from underwater with the way your ears pop with relief. The atmosphere around the back-end of the club is so peaceful it almost feels eerie to think you’re still on Coruscant. You have all but three seconds to appreciate the coolness drifting over your skin before Wolffe pins you up against the closed door. 

His hands are on you immediately, clawing over your torso with a _desperation_ he can no longer hide and the promise that their touch will continue to haunt your memories long after they pull away. They linger on the curve of your hips for a moment, before digging into the meat of your thighs and backside to clumsily hoist you closer towards him still. You let go then and give into his hunger, your own teeth scraping against the exposed sliver of his throat as you choke back a moan at the half growl, half purr he emits at your response.

“I’ve been wanting to do this for a while now,” The words are low and rumbling against your jaw, choked out between the sloppy, _biting_ kisses he plants there, “wanted - _ah_ \- wanted **you** for a long while now-”

He was going to ruin you, and you plan to fully **revel** in the way he does it.

“The feeling is **very much** mutual, Wolffe.” You smile as you angle your head to finally slot your mouth against his own, groaning as he presses back in an open-mouthed clash of tongue and teeth, his confession warming you in more ways than one. You keen as he presses his hips harder into your own, the ridges of his codpiece grazing you almost _bruisingly,_ and making you wish that you had the strength to reach out and strip him bare to the moonlight right there and then.

It all feels so _ **naughty**_ \- like you’ve been hunted, cornered and devoured by him, even when you had been orchestrating it all just as much as he had. Deep beneath the haze that has settled over your mind, a tiny part of you wonders how this evening will affect your working relationship. 

A strong squeeze to your rear quickly shatters that thought and lets it drift away with the shared moan that sounds through the air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wolffe can get a little naughty, for a treat.
> 
> I recently restarted up my tumblr @libradusk if you wanna chat or suggest any characters + scenarios you would like me to write! I'm still trying to figure it out after my 6+ year absence from the site lol
> 
> Thank you as always for reading <3 muah x


	5. Kix

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings include use of alcohol as a coping mechanism, injury and death resulting from war and a medical setting for the first half of the fic.
> 
> Also, my two medic oc's are mentioned as supporting characters in this. You can find a visual reference for Eir on my tumblr [here](https://libradusk.tumblr.com/post/622552510381621248/introducing-medical-officer-eir-ive-been-meaning) if that's your style.

When he wasn’t in the mess for supper with the rest of the 501st’s boys, you knew exactly where he was hiding.

That preconceived knowledge turned over itself in your stomach. The feeling was biting, twisting your newly closed stitches tighter until they threatened to knot your rib-cage into black and blue rods of anxiety.

You were woozy, still somewhat unsteady on your feet despite it having been a full 24 hours since you had awoken from the surgeon’s table, bathed in a halo of fluorescent light and with little more than a medical droid for company. But still, despite the stinging in your side and the heaviness of your muscles, you persevered onward, back towards the medbay, back to him - whether he wanted the company or not, you needed to do what you could to ensure he was ok.

For your _own_ sanity, as well as his at this point.

Your stomach protests against your heart’s demand the moment you are hit with the first wave of disinfectant-heavy air, forcing your arm to shoot out and brace your heaving body against the medbay’s entrance. Almost instantly, your knees buckle in response to the flare of pain that shoots over your entire right side. Bile begins to stretch and rise from the hollowness of your stomach, equal parts a reaction to not only the smell and memory of your injury, but also to the _agony_ currently rippling across your hunched form. The force of it makes your heart feel as though it is swelling and threatening to drag itself out of your throat with each breath you take, it takes a good few seconds to recollect yourself and refocus your vision as it stutters. 

There's a quiet sense of mourning draped across the wing. Considering what whispered condolences and murmurings had floated past the lips of the surviving soldiers released the same time as you, you’re not surprised. Through the pain poisoning your thoughts, you theorise that the bulk of the medical staff on duty are no doubt stretched between filing out piles of casualty reports and treating what unfortunate souls were not as lucky as you were. Yet despite all this, it's mere moments before you raise your head to find yourself flanked by a small crowd of medical droids. They hobble around you on weighted, gray tinted limbs with a speed that seemed uncanny to the robotic creatures, a concerned droning manifesting through the air as their vocal modulators begin to speak in unison.

_Get away from me, I don’t have time for this!_ The words lock themselves behind your gritted teeth as you inwardly curse your body for collapsing in on itself before your mission was complete. Thinking only in frustration, you fight past the tremor threatening your wrist to shove at the closest droid’s metallic face-plate, silently urging your senses to adapt to the sterile atmosphere so you could continue to force your tired legs towards their goal.

Yet instead of the chill of durasteel or the sharp prickle of a sedative agent penetrating your flesh, all you feel beneath your fingers is….nothing. You flex them around the air as you force your breathing to return to normal once more, the frantic panic slowly uncaging the rest of your senses until you can reach focus. There's a heavy, latex warmth clamped around your outstretched wrist and a symmetrical weight steadying the hunch of your shoulder. You follow the path they offer until your eyes meet with the concerned gaze serving as the final stitch that keeps you frozen in place - pinning you with a tired glare that makes you feel remorseful and relieved all at once.

“...Eir.”

The clone medic continues to stare down at you long after you regard him and shift your weight backwards. The purple tattoos rimming his eyes bleed almost seamlessly into the dark circles bruising the hollow of their sockets. His hair doesn't look like it's been washed properly in days and he's still donning a set of surgical scrubs atop his uniform. He looks every bit as broken as you feel, yet he's still on duty with no sign of rest in sight. Your heart falls at the thought of how many others have been injured as badly as you in the last attack to warrant him being assigned _additional duties_ within the 501st.

A sigh stretches over Eir’s chest as his dark eyes inspect the state of you.

“You should be resting. I had hoped you would have had the sense to stay away from the medbay for a while longer at least. I’ve got my hands full here as it is without you working yourself to the point of reinstatement straight after being discharged.”

Despite the exasperation sinking across his tone, he releases his hold on your wrist, the hand supporting your shoulder slinking back to join it in shooing away the medical droids as soon as he deems you steady enough to stand to full height again. He clicks his tongue as you absentmindedly ghost a hand over your injured side despite the pain having mostly subsided in its throbbing now. There's another beat where you can't quite bring yourself to look him in the eyes, feeling oddly sheepish at the scene you had just made, and continuing to wither under his knowing gaze. He takes mercy on you then, recognising the determination blazing behind your downtrodden expression and greeting it with a knowing smile so tiny, you don’t even have a chance to notice it before it floats away once he returns his gaze to the rows of medical beds stretching like coffin markers down the hall.

“Come on then if you’re going to find him, I can’t have you pulling at your stitches in the doorway. You know you’ll have to face Faera’s wrath if you ruin her handiwork.”

His voice holds a familiar warmth now as he folds his hands behind him and waits for you to follow his march. A sigh of relief leaves you before you can stop it, the force of it irritates your bruised lungs, but you confine the feeling to the back of your mind and concentrate on pushing your legs to a brisk walk behind the tall clone.

“...You know, he almost fought Faera when she was called in to stitch you up.” The words wring out a fresh admission of guilt from you, if Eir notices the heaviness of your silence, he doesn’t comment on it. You can’t blame him, his mind must be engulfed in a war-zone of its own right now.

“I’ve never seen him-” the surgical room doors seem to spin past each other as you and Eir pass them, each identical to the last. You wonder if the way they seem to blur together into a grey-white smudge makes Eir feel dizzy too, as you wait for him to pick up his sentence where he left it hanging under the pale lights. “-I’ve never seen him so terrified to _leave_ a surgery before…”

Eir comes to a graceful halt at the end of a particularly dark stretch of the medbay corridor. A sigh born from concern hisses across the scar marring his lip and creases his brow. He wrings his gloved hands behind his back as his gaze rests on the final door looming in front of you both.

“...Make sure he’s ok will you? For _me_ too.” Another sigh. Long, dark lashes flutter in contemplation as his fingers continue to twist around the apprehension, the _**guilt,**_ as it spills away from him in the safety of the dark. “We’ve lost a lot of brothers these past few days… I’ve taken him off duty, but he won’t let me-”

The mess of feelings choke him now and he ducks his body away from you, snapping at the bunched corner of his gloves to steel his mind and breathing. Your voice finally finds itself once more as your fingers move to the door’s switch.

“I promise, Eir. Look after yourself too, okay?”

You stand in the doorway just long enough to see the back of his head tip forwards in a nod before you leave him to confront the very man you had set out to locate.

The moment the blast door closes behind you, all the air slips from your throat once more. The echo of hospital equipment set up across the wards finally numbs, and you’re left with little more than the harsh lighting crawling across the room to distract yourself from the sight in front of you. Your heart keeps on rising until you can taste it: nervous and bloody and _ **wretched.**_

Kix sits with his back to you atop the surgical table in his blacks - no scrubs, no armour and armed only with a bottle of brandy hanging from his deft surgeon’s fingers. The room itself is heavily sanitised and free from gore and death, not unlike the one you had woken up in that same morning, yet it still manages to conjure a feeling that's downright insidious as the atmosphere crawls over your skin.

The entire base stinks of death today, the sickly pallor of Kix’s skin under the lights appears to indicate that he's danced beside its path far too many times now.

The clack of your boots against the floor is soon smothered by the neon as you edge yourself closer to where he sits, motionless in place. Had the arch of his shoulders not been gently rising with each breath he took, you would have been convinced that death had claimed him too.

“Smuggling in alcohol to the medbay, Kix? I would have expected better from a medic.”

You try to keep your tone light as it always is when you greet each other, but the words tumble out sour and tired, scratching your throat and flooding the gashes they leave with guilt the moment that they’re free. They trip forward and tie themselves around your feet, begging you to turn back around and leave. You ignore them, stepping closer into the room. You find yourself tracing the wedding of tattoos and patterns shaved into the back of his skull to calm yourself in the silence. The bottle remains suspended at his side, an all too familiar barrier for you both.

The seconds feel heavier than ever before he finally shrugs them away, throwing you a backwards half-glance over his shoulder, wordlessly beckoning you closer despite the hesitation that clenches across the muscles in his arms. Your attempt at lightheartedness is all a facade and you both know it. The fact that your hands have begun their crawl up the sides of his biceps to massage the knotted stress out of his shoulder blades is revealing enough of your true intentions.

You don’t waste energy with empty inquiries into if he's ok - none of the GAR medical staff are, after all, statistics and corpses cannot lie.

He leans back into your touch appreciatively, taking the utmost care to keep the brunt of his weight off of you. Kix’s gaze is locked on the swirling golden contents of the bottle in his fist now, the expression branded across them reminds you of the one Eir’s face had mirrored minutes prior. Another lump curdles in your throat as you spread your palms a little wider across his back and lean into the warmth of his body from behind him. The table bites into your thighs.

“I wish I could tell you it matters if I drink on the job or not. I’ve lost every one of the boys I’ve touched in the last ten surgeries.”

The world pauses at his words.

He takes another heavy swig of the bottle, hissing at the sting of the liquid against his tongue. The smell of it between you turns in your stomach, but you press your face into the slope of his neck all the same, urging him to continue with a gentle press of your lips.

“... and then when they brought you in from the field, all bloody and unconscious - a little part of me started screaming to run away.” Kix pulls forward, gently separating you both so he can twist to finally look at you from the edge of his table-top perch. His eyes are painted with remorse, but beneath it they’re as warm as they always are when it comes to you. “I was so scared of killing you too.”

His eyes glass over the moment his fingers can’t fight their shiver long enough to hold the bottle anymore. The emotion in them shatters the same time it hits the table with a resounding _thunk._

You rush to gather him up in your arms before the first tears begin to fall, pulling his head to your chest in the hope that your heartbeat could soothe him where your words could not. His fingers are bitten and washed raw, but no amount of scrubbing could ever cleanse his memories of what he had seen, what he was _yet_ to see. They’re blistered around the cuticles, and you press each knuckle against your mouth to try and kiss away the guilt and the pain they carry, anything to ease his burden even a little. You’re not naive, you know nothing short of a miracle would make things better as they currently stood, but you would sooner drop **dead** than let him be dragged down alone by the weight of it all.

“You did everything you could, _you all did._ ” You whisper the words against the heat of his skin, moving away the bottle so you could coax him closer and away from the table. “You didn’t kill any of them, none of this is your fault. I know it, Eir knows it and so does _every single one_ of the boys in this whole damn army”

He’s carved from solid muscle, yet he’s so beaten down that the defeat aches across his posture and sinks its teeth into his bones as he struggles to find his feet. He breathes in deeply, head lolling heavily in the crook of your neck to ground himself from breaking down and sobbing into you. Each breath is steady, counted, but his heart flutters erratically next to yours as his fingers twitch over where they know your injury lies, too terrified to touch _near it_ in case they somehow unhook each of the stitches and spill your blood across the white room. You dance your own down his spine in drawn-out, fluid movements. Your mind is aflame with the knowledge that though his body may gradually begin to unfurl, as long as he remains planted in this place his mind will be primed to snap again and again, until there is little left for you to reach.

He’s torturing himself by remaining here long after his shift has ended, you note. The realisation punctures something deep and threatens to drag forward fresh tears of your own. You pull back then despite the reluctance of both your limbs and the man tangled between them, gently patting his shoulder once before lacing your fingers against his clammy palm.

“Come on.” It's not a request as much as it's an instruction, one that leaves no room for argument despite the dull pain that throbs across your tone.

Eir is nowhere to be seen when you finally succeed in leading Kix by the hand out of the surgical room, you don't know whether to be relieved or concerned at the fact. The air across the ward still tastes of sickness and fear, it clips you as you push past it and out towards where your quarters are located.

Your room is small and most certainly not designed to house _two_ people, but it's a better place to grieve than on a cold slab of operating table. Perhaps you think, that you’re also a little selfish enough to want him next to you tonight. Just so that you can ensure he isn't falling to pieces in that cold, aseptic cage of a surgical room if nothing else.

Your hands are endlessly gentle as you bundle him into the narrow bed before placing them on the mattress to carefully ease yourself in next to him. He senses your discomfort immediately, shuffling over to help you climb beneath the sheets in a position that takes the pressure off your wound. The care with which he handles you defrosts a little of the sadness freezing your blood, grateful that even when he was hurting so deeply himself, his adoration for you still continued to dapple like sunlight through every action he undertook. You draw him back into your chest again then, engulfing him in the warmth and safety that you extend to him with your entire being. Kix’s eyes shut themselves tightly, lashes fluttering against your pulse as he listens in for the thrum of your heart against your rib-cage. A tiny part of you hopes that it will be enough to lull him into some much needed slumber, but the cynicism dominates and quashes the thought as soon as it bubbles to the surface - its all wistful thinking once again, neither of you will sleep much at all tonight, that much had been foretold the moment you were discharged from the medbay that same morning.

The smell of brandy is weaker on his breath now as he trails his fingers over your torso, having finally found the strength to touch you now that he had been liberated from his self imprisonment. A shudder kisses down your spine at the sensation. It's as though he’s mapping out every little bit of your body, like you will be taken away from him if he doesn’t.

The same bitter cynicism screams in your ear once more, reminding you that in this war there’s no real guarantee you won’t be pulled apart either way.

You force it down alongside a fresh curtain of tears.

His digits halt once they loop towards the medical dressing plastered to your side, it's as if the newfound obstacle has clashed with his memories of your body enough to shock him to an abrupt stop. Slowly, cautiously, his touch withdraws away from the fabric as if it's **dangerous.**

“It’s proof that I’m **alive.** ” He doesn’t respond outright, but you can feel his shoulders begin to shake underneath your caress, even though his face remains hidden under your chin. “You saved me, Kix, I’m here because of _**you**_ **.”**

“My heart hasn’t stopped pounding from the moment they wheeled you in. It only got worse when they called me away to begin another procedure, all I could think about was what I would do if you didn’t wake up - like all the others before you.”

You curl around him tighter, hooking your legs around his own and cupping under his shoulder blades to draw him in even closer, grounding you both as he spills his heart until it bleeds into the sheets beneath you. Tears stream his face, less reluctant now. They veer down in fat streams and look drunk with how they cling to his cheeks and chin.

“...These boys _need_ you, Kix. You would need to carry on as you always have, as we all do. -”

**“I wouldn't want to.”**

You let him say it, let it drip like poison from his lips in the hope that it's at least cathartic to the guilt radiating from within him. You snuff out any words that threaten to follow with a kiss to his forehead, prolonged and firm enough to soothe the lump in _your_ throat as much as it is for him. He cranes his head upwards to capture the second kiss with his own mouth. There's nothing gentle about how his lips mesh with your own this time, his kiss is searing with its passion and it steals away what little breath you have left. A hand threads itself behind your nape to pull you impossibly closer in the tiny bed, the other digging into your hip bone as though you would dissolve into starlight if he failed to hold you in place.

His cheeks feel damp as they scrape against your face, dying the kiss salty with tears. They overpower the bite of the brandy on his tongue in the same way they must do to the alcohol burning in his veins. The sheets twist and threaten to slip from the bed frame as you press to turn him onto his back despite the twinge in your side. His eyes snap back open, wide and alert in protest at your overexertion. You shut down the medic side of him with a single finger to his parted lips, a smile blossoming across your face for the first time that day. The thin sheets pool around your hips, binding both sets of the legs beneath it together. He relents with his unvoiced complaint, frown still reluctant, but eyes swimming with golden waves of emotion as he stares up at you. 

_**“I love you.”** _

He’s said it before, a few times now - but back then the words were always seeped in alcohol and playful bravado. This is different, it's raw and choked with affection that runs deeper than any liquor could ever reach. It decorates across his face in such detail that it puts his tattoos to shame, and it drags forth another wave of tears that have been collecting behind your lashes. They drip into your smile as it splits wider.

“ **I love you too, Kix**. More than you’ll ever know.”

You surge forward to kiss across his face and neck, relying on the peppered heat of your lips and _passion_ to communicate what mere words never could - to reassure every part of him that you were real, alive, and hopelessly in love with him, that come morning, he wasn’t going to wake up to your body laying there cold and accusatory with his failure to save you.

For the first time, Kix allows himself to be treated for his own wounds, as you stitch up his anxieties with each brush of your lips against his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to the immensely talented @morganas-pendragons on tumblr! 
> 
> Thanks for the love shown to this series so far, I've had a blast writing it.


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